


The Deep Dark of It All

by Winterwords



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-14 07:47:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2183661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterwords/pseuds/Winterwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The expedition to find Paragon Branka fails. All that’s left to do is die. Instead, Natia is dragged further into the Roads and confronts truths far more twisted than an Archdemon. A relationship she never admitted to having becomes not only a means to fend off a tainted transformation, but the only light in the deep dark of it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Is DA:I out? No, ughhh fine I'll just play DA:O again.  
> Oops. I'm addicted again. I wrote something. 
> 
> I know it's not proper to have more than 1 warden. Yes, I changed stuff in the Deep Roads.

_Let’s be honest, she told to herself, you were already living on borrowed time. It’s just caught up to you and then some. That borrowed time has twisted around and spilled over into those around you. You’re letting him suffer because you can’t be merciful enough to kill him._

She dropped the thoughts like heavy boulders plummeting out her mind, tightened her grip on Zevran’s armpits and continued to drag the elf toward the shelter of the broken archway. 

It wasn’t the first time she dragged a body over the broken ground of the Deep Roads, albeit those times were considerably closer to the Orzammar. Natia had done a good deal of hauling dead bodies to dark chasms where the solid stone split apart to reveal massive valleys of emptiness. She rarely did the honors of kicking the body over the edge though; that was reserved for Leske who made a game out of it. Toss a body and torch over the edge, and then see how long one can see the body in the tumbling light. If there was another Carta member with them, Leske and the member would take bets. 

Sometimes Leske bragged about hearing the splat of a body as it hit the bottom. But -and here she was honest with herself again- one didn’t hear bodies flatten against the rocks. The mountains were too dark and too deep to give such finality to whatever was left of a body. For all Natia knew, maybe the bodies fell into a soft mound of moss where sunless flowers grew and spirits sang lullabies to lost souls. 

_Don’t be stupid. The bodies_ , she reprimanded herself, _hit rock and smash into a bloody, squishy mess. Shale would be quite delighted._

She tried not to think it, but the thought progressed logically… _He’ll be just a body soon. He’ll be just another mound of flesh on the rock. He’ll be-_

Natia squeezed her eyes shut tight and pulled with even more determination. She had never dragged the body of an elf before. He was much lighter then she first imagined him to be. He certainly felt solid enough when he was on top of her at night; when he pushed his fingers through her auburn locks and pressed unyielding kisses against her lips.

Maybe it was desperation that made him seem so light. Maybe it was the fact that he had little to eat for the past week. Or was it two weeks? Three weeks? Time in the Deep Roads stretched and bent like objects half submerged in water. Until the party had reached The Dead Trenches, time had been mostly stable and reliable. 

But time had shifted; shifted and splintered and frayed – much like the party itself. Amell, Morrigan and Shale were overwhelmed by the flanking darkspawn horde. Oghren had fallen back into one of the many crumbling tunnels and disappeared into the darkness. Natia and Zevran tried to flee towards the bridges near Bownammer and to the safety of the Legion. Tried and failed. 

The hunt for Paragon Branka wasn’t meant to take them past the Legion’s hold. Yet against Cousland’s orders, Natia pushed her expedition forward into uncharted territories. The human noble had given his explicit instructions before the expedition departed, but Natia disregarded such orders all the time. Part of her wanted to prove she, a casteless thug, could find Branka, and another part had argued for pushing forward just because Cousland didn’t want her to. It was Cousland’s fault she was here to begin with. She didn’t even want to return Orzammar in the first place, let alone get involved with the feuding would-be kings. 

She had had her own solution to Orzammar’s would-be king problem anyway. She and Zevran were very capable of infiltrating Harrowmont’s estate and taking out the contender to the throne efficiently. Problem solved. In fact, Natia would have preferred that method. 

Cousland insisted that Wardens don’t employ such despicable methods. At least not Wardens like Cousland, Alistair and Mahariel. Wardens like Amell didn’t care either way. There was little that Amell did care about. Although Natia was sure the mage’s opinion of resolving the matter had shifted like time. If Amell was still alive, Natia was certain he was regretting the decision to not let her and Zevran take out Harrowmont. 

Convenient that neither Mahariel and Cousland volunteered to led the Deep Roads expedition. They weren’t the ones sent out on some Stone forsaken expedition to find Branka. They haven’t spent weeks surviving endless darkspawn, spiders and deepstalkers. They aren’t the ones carrying the body of a dying lover-

She halted her thoughts. _Not lover. Not that. He isn’t that.  
If you don’t love him then leave him here. He’s just another body. _

With a final heave, Natia pulled the elf into the safety beyond the crumbling archway. Long ago the hovel might have been a barrack. Or maybe it was somebody’s home. The glory and greatness of her ancestors had also become like time in the Deep Roads; broken and stretched out, forgotten and confused. 

Natia slumped to her knees and reclined against a wall, taking huge gulps of stale air. After the party’s initial break up, it had been easy enough to take down any stranglers that had followed her and Zevran down wayward tunnels. It had even been easy to avoid the patrol of darkspawn archers that emerged from what she assumed was once a great hall. 

Stealth and sneakiness were natural to her and the elf. Even though the duo failed to retreat towards the Legion, they had managed a good day’s journey well enough with injuries. (Or was it a few hours’ journey?) Despite a fairly deep gash in his chest, Zevran kept up. Even when all the light faded and they were left in numbing darkness, he held tightly to her hand as she led on, commenting in whispered murmurs how lucky he was to be guided by her, a dangerously beautiful dwarf. 

And thank the Ancestors she hadn’t lost her Stone sense after so much time topside. Eventually she knew they would find a road or tunnel that would point them towards the Legion. She could feel the flow of magma and the churn of the world under and in the rocks, like the way Mahariel could navigate with nature or Morrigan could by which way and how fast the birds flew. 

Maybe Oghren had found the others. Oghren has to have some sort of Stone sense. _He could lead them out just as easy as I could. Right?_

She tried to tell herself such a thing happened but didn’t believe it. Oghren got lost finding a place to piss. 

Natia wiped sweaty, bloody hands on her torn leather armor pants. She could hear Wynne’s voice scolding her for treating wounds with dirty hands. It was a pointless gesture to attempt to remove the muck; her pants were just as filthy. She did it anyway because it was all she could do to pretend everything was just okay. 

Zevran didn’t rouse when she began to pull the tattered chest armor from the elf. Gooey globs of half congealed blood and infected skin clung to the armor. His tan skin had begun to discolor to a sick yellow. Natia assumed it was a shade of sick yellow. Colors were hard to pin point in the muted light of dimming dwarf runes and ancient thaig torches. 

The wound on the elf’s chest had begun to heal when it was abruptly pulled apart. When he had been flung against the wall by the ogre, the wound had obviously ripped apart again. Natia gauged the initial wound must have been from a sword. The gash wasn’t smooth enough to be something caused by the precise damage of magic. 

The chest wound wasn’t the worst though. Not even the various other scratches and bruises seemed significant enough to warrant concern. While battling a Blight, wounds were frequent and diverse and dealt with accordingly.  
What worried Natia were two other wounds: a poisoned cut that started at the elf’s wrist and ran the length of his arm up to his neck, and the awkward angle that his right foot was twisted at, prompting his lower leg to swell. 

Almost unconsciously she ripped a piece of cloth from the tunic under her armor and began cleaning whatever she could. She was no healer. She had no idea how to repair so much damage without salves and potions. She mimicked the behavior she saw her comrades perform after battles. Typically, Leliana and Mahariel were the non-mages who applied salves and bandages, while Wynne and Amell provided the bulk of magical healing. It was a good system of restoration that proved effective and efficient. 

A rogue healing a rogue was the farthest thing from effective and efficient. 

_This isn’t just a scrap from a dragon claw or infected fever. You don’t know what you’re doing. You might as well stab him in the back and hope he gets better.  
Just like you stabbed Leske in the back. Just like you do with everything. Can you do anything else? _

“Shut up,” Natia snapped at herself. Her trembling hands pulled away from the body for a moment. Although she wanted to cry, she couldn’t find even the strength for tears. If she was honest with herself, she knew she would never make it back to Orzammar and neither would Zevran.

Maybe Amell and Morrigan would make it back somehow. They could shapeshift themselves after all. Natia pictured the two mages showing up in Orzammar months after the initial expedition to find Branka. Whoever was king would tell the two that the Wardens and others had moved on. Maybe the Blight would be over by then. Maybe Alistair would be the human king. Maybe Cousland would get back his family’s estate. Maybe Leliana and Mahariel would go traveling together and live happily ever after. 

Natia cursed the thought of the bard and the Dalish elf warden. She held no hard feelings towards either, but if things had been even slightly different, maybe it would be Mahariel and Leliana in the place of her and Zevran. Do-good Leliana and her lovely, do-good, pale-faced elf warrior would be covered in blood and shit and Ancestors know what else, and be trapped in a seemingly infinite labyrinth of darkspawn, mad Paragons in search of make-believe anvils, malfunctioning golems, poisonous spiders, and the occasional lost, tainted dwarf ghoul. If only Mahariel and Cousland agreed to take on the expedition. 

_They couldn’t, you know that. Somebody had to stay behind. Somebody has to carry on with the burden of the Grey Wardens. With or without the dwarves, Cousland will lead the team the Wardens to victory. And who better to send to the Deep Roads than a dwarf? It’s a pity you didn’t take up Leliana’s offer, huh?_

Natia tossed the bloody cloth aside, ripped a new piece and continued the pointless cleaning of wounds. It did her no good to stumble about in the past. Despite the bard’s good-natured offer to take Zevran’s place in the expedition, the elven assassin would have come along anyway. And no matter how cruel and bitter Natia liked to be, she wasn’t as heartless as to accept Leliana’s offer so she could simply enjoy the look of devastation in Mahariel’s face as the bard entered the Deep Roads. Besides, had Leliana gone then Mahariel would have demanded to be the expedition leader. Natia and Zevran could’ve be back in their inn room, alone and warm in a bed of soft blankets. 

_We could be safe. We could be like the bard and elf warrior right now. Safe and comfortable and bodies pressed-_

_No_ , Natia replied to herself, _you can’t. You’re not that. Not in love. Not lovers. None of that nonsense. You still have some poisons left, enough to cause a sudden, severe overdose in him. He won’t feel anything. It’ll be quick. Just get it over with. He’s just a body._

The dwarf pulled more fabric from her tunic and wrapped the cloth around the elf’s arm as best she could. When she got to the end of the wound near the base of his neck he stirred. He lurched onto his side and his un-bandaged arm reached out blindly. His raspy breathing hitched and when Natia rolled him back he coughed violently. 

She pulled Zevran up into a sitting position and pounded lightly on his back. Natia had seen Wynne do the same thing when Amell once had a wound to his chest. The elderly mage pounded on the other mage’s back until Daylen coughed up blood and was able to breathe comfortably enough to receive healing. 

A few splotches of mucus and blood came up, adding to the other assorted liquids staining Natia’s armor. The elf grew still again and he leaned forward on her, his breath returning to a slow, struggled rhythm. His face rested in the nape of her neck and she wrapped her arms around him protectively. 

She would have thought the position to be uncomfortable for him, but, at this point, Natia told herself he probably wasn’t even aware of his body. If anything, he was falling into a coma. In hours he wouldn’t even be breathing. Or was it minutes? Seconds? Was time moving too fast? Was time even moving at all? 

“I’m so, so sorry,” she whispered. 

She nearly jumped out of her skin when a muffled, weak reply came. “For what?” 

_For not absolutely demanding you stay back in Orzammar._

She corrected herself. _He would have come no matter what. Hadn’t he the permission, he’d still follow you. Wherever you lead he follows._

She stammered out a hasty answer, “For not saving you sooner.”

His fragile laugh echoed against the rocks and she felt his breath whisk against her skin; the same breath that ran over the back of her neck on cold nights after they had made lov-… _had what, Natia? I think you mean rutted. Just a good rut. Not like Mahariel and Leliana make love._

“My dear Warden, I am of the opinion you had already saved me well before this mishap,” his voice cracked in pain and his un-bandaged arm wrapped around her back possessively. “A genius plan to hide me here, yes? The Crows will not look here for me.” 

“Unfortunately neither will anybody else,” Natia responded wistfully. “I’m surprised you’re conscious. Do you even know where ‘here’ is?”

“The Deep Roads?”

“Are you guessing?”

“That depends if I get a reward for guessing right.”

“Zev, can you even feel your feet?” Natia smiled despite the odds stacked against them. 

“Unless you’re going to kiss my feet, I fail to see the problem.”

A tiny, almost inaudible giggle skipped past Natia’s lips and she moved one of her hands to his head, running fingers through tangled, matted hair and realizing that his braids had come undone. She wondered just when that had happened. She recalled how often she braided his hair on rushed mornings when Cousland was in a particularly annoyed disposition. Zevran carried her on his back as they marched to the insistent orders of the human, and she took her time weaving the strands together. She would prolong her time pressed against him any way she could, and she loved the way… _no, not loved. I enjoy. I enjoyed._

“Did I guess right?”

Natia nodded slightly, “Mmhm.” Despite the blood and shit and Ancestors know what else smeared on their faces, she kissed him. Not wildly and heated like during their tumbles, but softly and slowly, tenderly and truthfully. 

His hand slipped away from her back, his breathing grew quiet and she knew he was unconscious again. Would Leliana have asked for a last kiss in such a manner? Lovers often ask for one last kiss, just like in all the stories. 

_You’re not in love. Not like Leliana and Lyna. Not even like what Amell and Morrigan have become recently (yes, Amell, I know what two are doing.)_

She sat against the wall for minutes. Or was it hours? She held him and waited for his last breaths. She ran her fingers through his hair and wondered if this was how Mahariel would have held Leliana. Maybe Mahariel would have vials of healing potions in her pouches instead of poisons. Maybe Mahariel would know some secret elf recipe to blend poisons together to make a salve to seal wounds. 

_When he goes you have poisons. Mix two together and it’ll be like falling asleep. No pain. We’ll both be dead then. It won’t hurt when the darkspawn rip you apart. Neither of us will be aware when they stick our bodies on spears for display. They’ll rip off our arms and an emissary will-_

Natia’s mind darted back to her last battle. She had been so panicked to reach Zevran she had forgotten about the emissary. 

First there was the ogre that she and Zevran had taken down. There had been the pair of genlocks. One she took down herself and the other, who had given Zevran the nasty poisoned cut, was beheaded by the Antivan. Then there was a hurlock that grabbed Zevran’s ankle and broke the bone with a disgusting crunch. She proceeded to take out the hurlock in a mad rage, but she couldn’t recall the hurlock actually fighting back. 

She replayed the fight over. The ogre flung Zevran against the wall. The genlock slashed at Zevran with a poisoned dagger. The hurlock broke the elf’s ankle. None of them had targeted her and none of them had specifically sought to out-right kill Zevran. They had all specifically incapacitated him but did not kill him. And none of them even attempted to hurt her. When she dug her hands around Zevran’s armpits and began to drag him desperately away she had forgotten the emissary that slunk back into the shadows. 

Was that right? Was time so mixed up in the Deep Roads that reality itself was shattering? Why didn’t they try to hurt her? 

Natia laid the elven assassin back on the ground and looked over his wounds again. She peeled away the make shift bandages on his arm and scrutinized the festering skin. Terrified ideas skittered in the back of her mind. Do darkspawn play with their prey? She pressed fingers into Zevran’s neck and felt for the beat of his heart. It wasn’t strong and wasn’t steady, but it was still going. He would have told her if he was in terrible pain? Right? 

_Just kill him. Drag him and yourself over a ledge. Bodies lost in the dark and time._

There was a ‘clink’ of metal beyond the broken archway. Feet shuffled over the ground. A whisper flicked into the stagnant air. Natia wondered if perhaps her darkspawn senses had been so overwhelmed for so long that she couldn’t feel their presence any more. She snatched a dagger from Zevran’s belt and crept forward. 

“First day, they come and catch everyone.”

Natia caught her breath. 

“Second day, they beat us and eat some for meat.”

“Morrigan?” Natia called, although she was certain the voice did not belong to the witch.

“Third day, the men are all gnawed on again.” 

Natia waited for the voice to speak again. She drew back and hovered protectively over Zevran. 

“Fourth day, we wait and fear for our fate.”

“Who’s there?” Natia asked as firmly as she could, trying to muster the courage to sound like Cousland when the human was prodding for information. 

“Fifth day, they return and it’s another girl’s turn.”

“This isn’t funny. If that’s you Amell, I swear to the Stone I will tweak your nipples so hard you’ll-” 

“Sixth day, her screams we hear in our dreams.” 

Natia bit her lip, pressed herself back against the wall and pulled the elf back up into a sitting position. She wished she had been at least as tall as him so she could hold him more defensively. She feared she might appear like a child clinging to their safety blanket for shelter. 

“Seventh day, she grew as in her mouth they spew.  
“Eighth day, we hated as she is violated.  
“Ninth day, she grins and devours her kin.  
“Now she does feast, as she’s become the beast.”

In the murky light of the Deep Road a hand curled around the doorway. Small, blistered fingers wrapped themselves tightly to the carved stone and a head peered in. A sunken in face with taut skin and empty, grey eyes studied Natia warily. 

“Who are you?” Natia asked, her voice wavering.

“Now you lay and wait, for their screams will haunt you in your dreams,” the dwarven female replied. 

“Who are you!” Natia snarled. 

The dwarf didn’t answer. She blinked in confusion. 

“Are you part of the Legion?” Natia tried to calm her voice, even though it was apparent the other dwarf woman wasn’t in the least bit fearful or concerned. She thought back to when her expedition party had happened across Ruck. 

The dwarf peeled her fingers from the stone and stepped inside. Her eyes rolled from Zevran to Natia. “He won’t taste so bad after a few days, especially since he’s still alive. They try to keep some of the males alive.”

“Excuse me?” Natia floundered for a proper response. 

“They don’t like it when you make them wait though. Obey and you’ll survive.” 

Natia jerked her wrist so that the metal of the dagger caught the light of the runes and reflected against the dwarf’s eyes. Zevran had taught Natia that trick -blind a target with a sudden brightness. Unfortunately, the runes were far from bright and the action did little more than annoy the tainted woman. 

“You are new, aren’t you? You are still bold,” the ghoul smiled to reveal a mouth of diseased gums. 

Zevran flinched in Natia’s arm and almost instinctively his hand found her shoulder and he tried to pull himself closer. She realized when his clammy, sweaty hand sought out warmth how very warm he was and how very cold she was.

As if on cue, the woman spoke up, “Don’t worry, by the tenth day you won’t even feel the cold.”

As silently as she had appeared, the woman shuffled back through the doorway and disappeared into the darkness. Natia waited with her arm held out, dagger poised to be flung into whatever wandered into her view. When she was certain the ghoul was gone, Natia readily discarded the dagger and dug her fingers into her belt pouches. She was going to poison them both here and now. If the twisted time of the Deep Roads wouldn’t even let them have a quiet, peaceful departure then so be it. She couldn’t blame Zevran for clinging to life as long as he had. Of course his body would be trained to resist poison and death. 

_Unless they gave him poison to extend his life. Slow his body but keep him just barely alive. There are poisons like that…remember when Leske…_

“Sod it all, shut up,” Natia reprimanded herself. 

Something snapped in her mind, like a door being kicked open. Her Grey Warden abilities alerted her to rapidly approaching darkspawn. 

She took a thick, but small, glass vial out. Using her teeth she pulled out the cork and spat it aside. She tried to be gentle, but time was firmly against her. Natia plucked Zevran’s fingers from around her shoulder armor and pushed him back to the ground.  
He squirmed and attempted to fight her; trained reflexes jerking into action because his body didn’t know what else to do.

It was too late though. By the time she had straddled him and forced open his mouth the darkspawn came. The vial was knocked from her hands and she was yanked away from the elf. Her weapons were quickly chucked aside and she watched as a massive hurlock hoisted the assassin over its shoulders. 

She clawed at the callous hands that bound her feet. She bit into wrists as they bond her hands. But even after all her mad attempts to escape, all she could do was scream as they carried both her and the elf further into the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

The steady swiftness of the horde surged forward like the tireless push of the underground lava rivers. The darkspawn maneuvered the roads and tunnels expertly, indicating that they had traveled such passages frequently. Despite being off her feet and removed from her Stone sense, Natia could tell she and Zevran were being moved even further into the uncharted territories. All her efforts to navigate back to the Legion were deposed of in minutes. Or was it hours? Days? Natia attempted to map out the route in her mind but couldn’t find the concentration for such a task. Her thoughts hurtled from Zevran to the rapidly appearing lyrium veins pulsing rich with power. 

Dear Ancestors, she had never seen so much abundantly available, untapped lyrium! Her panicked thoughts made plans to chip away at a vein as soon as they stopped. She wouldn’t be affected by the substance in a short amount of time, but it would be easy to contaminate the elf’s blood with such dense, unrefined ore. It wouldn’t be as quick and painless as poison, but Natia was running out of options. 

Or she could snap his neck. Or anything sharp and pointy jammed right into his heart. Or she could drag him over a ledge. Or, if his body didn’t automatically fight back, simply cover his nose and mouth long enough. There were plenty of ways to murder him that didn’t include whatever long, warped tortures the darkspawn had planned. 

Much to Natia’s dismay though, the lyrium veins branched off down other tunnels and the blue haze faded from her sight. Throbbing fleshy veins and bulging flesh mounds clung to the ceiling and floor and jolted awake memories of the magical flesh that spawned in the Circle Tower. A new stench overpowered the raw reek of darkspawn and she was unprepared for monstrosity around the corner. 

Although the gaggle of darkspawn did not linger in the chamber, Natia felt all her logical senses yanked roughly away. Even her various plans to kill Zevran flushed from her mind. There it was; one of the grand secrets of the darkspawn. That’s where they all came from. That’s what the lunatic dwarf woman chanted about. Now she does feast, as she’s become the beast. 

It wasn’t hard to conclude just what the darkspawn intended for their hostages, even if the fading flick of hope inside Natia told her such notions were absurd. 

The beast saw the horde returning and her tentacles slapped hard against slimy walls in acknowledge of the new pawns dragged in. Then the monster was gone, disappeared from sight around the corner as Natia moved down further tunnels and was unceremoniously laid on the ground. 

She moved against their efforts to hold her down and pry open her mouth. She watched from the corner of her eye as Zevran was tossed to the floor and left in a corner. She saw the dwarf ghoul from before, in the middle of the room, observing the action with indifference. 

“It’s better if you don’t defy,” the ghoul muttered at Natia. “You’ll sleep first and then it’ll be much easier to deny.” 

Natia kicked out her legs into the chest of a darkspawn above her and sent it toppling backwards. She had a moment to sit up before more creatures swarmed in to hold her down. Her eyes rapidly scanned the room but found nothing but more bloated flesh sacs and decaying dwarf and darkspawn corpses. 

Devoid of weapons and strength, she did her best to fend them off but eventually her struggle faltered. She was pinned to the floor and forced to drink a dark, thick liquid. She gagged and spat most of it up, but some went down. They repeated the process several times until her stomach felt solid and all her energy was gone. They sat her up and patted her back. Dry tears pooled at the base of her eyes when she recalled the way she had just done the same thing to elven assassin. 

“I know, it burns,” the ghoul spoke under her breath. “It’ll get better after a few turns.” 

The darkspawn laid her back down and left, leaving her to stare up at the fractures in the ceilings and listen to the gurgle and plop of liquids oozing about the veins and sacs. 

“Are you still alive? Has your stomach solidified? Is your blood rushing to your head?” the ghoul peered over Natia and asked very matter-of-factly, as if such questions were discussed along with things like the lyrium refining processes or how to better season a cooked nug. 

“The elf,” Natia stammered. “What did they do with him?”  


 _Please let it be over for him. It isn’t his fault I dragged them all way beyond our destination._

The woman clicked her tongue and shook her head. “Why’s it matter to you?”

“Did they feed him that stuff?” Natia tried to move her leg but could only muster the stamina to move her little toe. 

“They don’t feed them, not the men,” she said and glanced to the elf. “It’s a man, right? Elf? Haven’t seen an elf for a long time.” 

“Is he still alive?” Natia ignored the questions and fought off the waves of lightheartedness slamming into her. 

“Probably,” the woman replied, again very matter-of-factly.

Natia frowned, “Could you check?”

“You’re not going to ask about what they fed you? You’re not going to ask about Laryn? You’re not going to ask more sensible questions?”

“No,” Natia snapped. Her discussions with Cousland sounded much the same. He would prattle on and on about anything and everything. Natia would bark out a few words and carry on. 

The woman disappeared from over Natia and the Warden heard feet scuffling over the various fluids painted on the floor. The shuffling grew faint, stopped and then agonizing minutes (or was it days?) later the woman reappeared over Natia. “Alive.”

“Would it be too much to ask you to please fix that?” Natia questioned. She tried to move again but the dizziness had become overwhelming and she shut her eyes and clenched her hands into fists. The rock that her stomach had become shifted against the flesh of her body, pushing visions into her mind of her belly ripping opening and a boulders falling out. 

The ghoul laughed and flecks of blood sputtered out of her mouth and unto Natia. “You’re clever to ask such a thing, dream friend. But I am not you and you’ve not been here long enough to be me.” 

More words came from the ghoul, but Natia’s mind suddenly found language very difficult to understand. The world spun and her stomach pushed against her flesh like a blunt needle against thin fabric.

Time splintered forcibly apart. Seconds slid into hours. Minutes became years. The darkspawn returned to feed her and then left. The ghoul stared at her. The darkspawn came again and if they fed her, she didn’t know. She couldn’t remember. The world disappeared and reappeared in sharp bursts of red colors and slick, oozing fluids. 

Then she began to wonder if she was moving backward in time because Zevran appeared. Her view of the ceiling tilted as the elf picked her up and her head rolled to the side. She was relieved to not have to look at the ceiling anymore, even if the walls were not that much different. His voice reached her ears as muted, far away murmurs, as if he was screaming across a vast ravine. She tried to move her hands; tried to reach out as if she could snatch onto the voice and drag it closer. 

Natia couldn’t move but at least time had slid briefly back into its proper rhythm. Zevran held her against his chest and she could hear the most wonderful ‘thrump’ of a heart hammering in a steady pattern. After so much time listening to fluids sloshing about, the solid beat of a heart was overwhelming 

“…then I’m nug’s uncle!” Oghren’s voice barked. 

“You could have fooled me,” Morrigan’s haughty voice replied. 

“Watch your sass, witch. I’m not afraid of you,” Oghren responded. 

“I rather think you should be,” Morrigan said. 

“Please, stop that. We can’t stay here. We need to move,” Amell’s flimsy voice stammered and tumbled over itself. His normal voice was wispy and frail without any added stresses, and Natia could only assume the mage was hysterically gasping for courage just spit out orders. 

“What are you going to do? Turn me into a nug?” Oghren threatened. 

“What is the fascination with everybody assuming I will turn them into something?” 

“I’m serious, please, stop it,” Amell whined. “We have other problems to worry about.” 

Sod it all, everybody shut up. Natia said but realized the words didn’t come out at all. She drew in a long, ragged breath and tried to force words from her lips again. The faintest of whimpers was all she could do and the exertion it took to make made her head spin. Time darted away from her again, like torch light falling into a crevice. Voices faded and, to her absolute horror, Zevran seemed to lay her back on the floor and leave. 

The darkspawn came again, opened her mouth and poured in the foul substance. She contended this must be a dream, but then it happened again and again, and by the sixth time she was convinced that she’d been flung over the edge of a gully and was trapped in her dead, mutilated body that the darkspawn toyed with regularly, like a child pretends to feed a doll. 

Memories caved-in on themselves like tunnels collapsing and even her voice in her mind melted into just a dull, stagnant warble of disjointed words. She forgot about the search for Branka. She forgot about the hours she spent sobbing in the inn’s bathroom over what she had done to Leske. She forgot about how much she enjoyed asking Morrigan to cast a weak ice spell under Alistair’s next step; the templar would wobble, slip and end up complaining to Wynne that his socks got muddy. She forgot about the way Mahariel would weave meadow flowers together into a crown that she’d plunk down on the head of her marabi. The dog would proceed to spend most of its time walking like it had the most precious of gems on its head, and, should the crown fall, the world would end. 

Memory after memory collapsed. She tried at first to stop the process, but gave up, clinging onto recollections of an Antivan elf that refused to dissolve completely into the darkness. She couldn’t completely abandon memories of mischievous smirks, agile fingers pressing into skin and coy words. 

Time became years stacked upon years and then fragment into brief, wonderful minutes when the darkspawn came to play with her again. Then back to years of nothing but a ceiling dripping with blood, festering flesh sacs and the intermittent face of the dwarf ghoul. 

When the ghoul spoke up, Natia’s (was that her name? did she have a name?) mind prickled with the odd sensation of hearing voices again. Anything by dripping fluids, grunting darkspawn and the shuffle of feet was so out of place. 

“Is she angry? Does she know what you have done?” the ghoul asked. “What will you do?” 

“She does not know, not yet,” Zevran’s voice responded. “You have my sympathies, although I am certain they mean very little to you now.”

Footsteps splattered through the pools of bodily juices. Hands went under her back and she was lifted from the floor. Her head sagged to the side and came to rest against a chest. After centuries away from the heartbeat, Natia’s thoughts bounded with delight at the return of the marvelous rhythm.

“What will you do now?” the ghoul asked. “Will you not join them? Haven’t you learned? It dangerous for you to be.”

“I will stay here,” he replied. “Will you allow that? This is your territory, after all. I do not want to invade.”

The ghoul laughed wistfully, “Won’t Branka suspect something when you are missing? Your branded lover will most likely die soon enough. Won’t it serve you better to travel with the others?”

Internally, Natia flinched at the word ‘lover’, but Zevran wasn’t disturbed. He never minded the word ‘lover’ as a replacement for sodding buddies or friends with benefits. She, however, disliked ‘love’ in any of its form and shot him nasty glares whenever he called her such. Love, loving, lovers: those were words associated with Lyna and Leliana. ( _wait, who are Lyna and Leliana? I should know them_ )

“I am not bound by oath to the others. I happen to have a pledge of loyalty to keep to this,” he paused, “this brand,” he said, although saying such a thing seemed unpleasant, as if such a nickname was not something enjoyable to express; as if he understood very well what it was to be casteless. 

“Pledge of loyalty?” the ghoul responded with a surprising amount of bitterness. “How much loyalty? How loyal are you going to be when she bites off your arm and gnaws on your liver?” 

There was a long pause before Zevran replied with a chuckle, “I happen to like it very much when she gnaws on me.” 

The ghoul sneered out a snort of disapproval but said nothing else. Natia’s world threatened to dissolve again with sudden movements, but her hands instinctively held to his shoulders and hung on while he moved them over to a wall, sat down and drew her into a protective hold. She had the impression that years and years and years ago she held him like this, pressed up against a wall with the knowledge that he was going to die. 

She relaxed when a hand rubbed slowly over her back and up her neck, kneading out muscles that she thought had turned to stone. His other hand brushed grime from her face and pulled bits of matted blood from her hair. 

“Let’s see, my Dear Warden, what story should I tell you this time?” he asked. 

He hummed softly in her ear and spoke about places and things long forgotten. She fell asleep for what felt like the first time in a century and woke up in a memory.


	3. Chapter 3

Against Cousland’s orders, Natia led her and Zevran right into the middle of a high dragon battle. 

They were technically supposed to be keeping guard against more cultists, but the roar of a dragon and the crack of ground being split apart forced her decision. She had warned Cousland not to taunt dragons. Poor Wynne and Amell were pressed thin on energy as it was and healing vials were running low. If possible, battles –especially with full grown dragons- should be avoided. 

She had given precise instructions on how crucial it was to sneak past such a monstrous beast. She had even offered to keep the beast distracted. It wouldn’t be hard to sneak around in the mountains while throwing explosive vials off into the distance to draw the beast away. She had used such tactics to herd and occupy rabid brontos. 

As it turned out, it was a good thing she was such an expert at disobeying orders. As soon as they emerged from the temple she sprang into action and slid through the gravel to save a disorientated Wynne from a nasty tail whip. She barked out orders which were quickly followed, even by those who were supposed to be obeying Cousland. 

Still, she supposed Cousland couldn’t have been all that mad. He did land the killing blow and was the proud of owner of supply of dragon scales. She offered to find a buyer for the scales but he turned her down expecting somebody named Wade could make him perfect armor. 

Leliana, Wynne, Morrigan, Cousland, Amell and the mutts proceeded with finding the urn. Natia stayed outside with the rest of the non-humans, bandaging wounds and asking more insipid questions to Shale. Who would have thought that on the way to Haven they’d have run into a man selling a golem control rod? All those stories her sister whispered to her during childhood were supposed to be made up; but there it was: a walking, talking golem. 

It was partly due to her fascination with the golem that she didn’t notice the assassin’s grimace until half way back through the temple. She pulled away from Shale and slunk to the back of the party where Zevran walked. A flirt was on the tip of her tongue when she snatched his hand away from his hip and realized the blood splotch staining his armor. Following the battle, he had insisted he was absolutely fine. She scowled at him. 

“Do not,” he whispered to her, holding up his free hand in protest, “do not summon Wynne or Daylen. It is not serious and our mages are weary enough as it is.”

She screwed up her face with objection but nodded. With a surge forward, she disappeared amongst the gaggle of chatty teammates and returned moments later with a vial that she had swiped from somebody’s pouch. He grinned at her pick pocket skills and let her rub the ointment on the wound as they marched. 

Later, after Cousland and Leliana had spoken with Brother Genitivi, the party returned to Haven and made a slow trek back down the mountain to camp. While skimming the outskirts of the village, Natia disappeared again. Despite fatigue, she lurked through the town quickly and raided the local shop for supplies. Nobody but Zevran noticed she had vanished for a few minutes and he didn’t question her upon her reappearance, even though he raised a curious eyebrow at a wide smile plastered on her face after returning. 

She intended to give him the boots she found that night. She expected he would want to thank her and she delighted in knowing he probably still had pleasurable techniques to demonstrate. She was glad she decided to let their ceaseless flirting turn into something more. It was reliving to have sex, especially amongst all the nonsense of a Blight. And some nights they didn’t even rut anymore. Sometimes it was just a simple massage and shared stories. 

The rain back at camp interrupted her plans. She had been in her tent cleaning blood from fingernails as she waited for the elf to appear. A bright light flashed, a distant rumble shook her tent and Natia fled to Zevran’s tent. 

She had survived three previous storms since leaving Orzammar, including her first one the night King Cailan and Duncan perished. Nobody had told her what was going on and Duncan was already on the field. When nobody seemed disturbed by the thunder and rain though, she focused on the mission of lightning the beacon. 

The second one, a nasty mess of lightning, came when she had been alone in her tent. She bolted to a sleeping Sten and shook him awake, ranting about the sky was being on white fire. Until then, she didn’t know such a lighting storm was a thing. Of course Cousland and Amell had laughed for hours about that, but somehow the deed had earned her some bit of rapport with the qunari. Out of all the teammates available to battle against what seemed like the end of the world, she had chosen the only one she thought capable to handle such a thing. 

The third storm was three days before Zevran attempted his assassination, although most of Natia’s team would probably remember it as the day she killed Arl Eamon’s son. Somebody had to do it though and she wasn’t going to have Isolde do such a thing, especially after Cousland flat out refused any sort of blood magic tactics. It had been her who knocked the mother out and made the final blow. It had been her who endured Alistair’s wrath after the proceedings. It had been her, like always, who was the only one brave enough to do what had to be done. Cousland hated her. Lyna pitied her. Amell shrugged his shoulders. 

It was the fourth storm she would remember the most. She practically flung herself into the shelter of the assassin’s tent only to find him hunched over in pain, clutching at a blanket and waiting for a surge of nausea to pass. The intimidating roar of the storm shrunk to a kitten’s meow. 

“It is just a bit of fever, it’ll pass,” Zevran forced himself to speak.

“And I’m a bronto’s uncle,” Natia barked as she turned to go get Wynne. 

Zevran grabbed her wrist, “Truly, my dear Warden, don’t bother the mages, yes? It has been a long journey and everybody must be asleep by now.”

Natia sighed. She understood what he really meant. Injuries right after battle were taken care of swiftly. Potions were handed out and wounds dealt with appropriately, but this was something that hadn’t healed properly and spread to his blood and breath. This would require sleep and care. Something like this meant being seen as weak and, Ancestors forbid, fully unconscious around people who didn’t trust him. 

“Lay down. If you vomit, try to do so in a corner. I’ll clean it up later,” she instructed and turned to the tent flap. “I’ll be right back. Alone, I swear.” 

She briefly fled back to her tent, leaving the boots in her tent for another time, and returned to Zevran’s tent with potions and salves. As best as two rogues could, they treated the ripped flesh caused by a dragon claw. For a while she kept a cool compress on his forward as he dozed fitfully, but when the storm finally began to subside, she brought up the unthinkable. 

“How big a dose of sleep powder do you need to be knocked out for a while?” she asked trying to sound confident. 

He frowned wholeheartedly.

“I won’t leave the tent while you’re out, I swear,” Natia spoke quickly and assuredly. “In the morning when they come looking for me I’ll say we were busy last night and we’ll catch up later. They’re just heading to Redcliffe anyway and don’t need either of us to deliver the ashes. I’ll have Shale stay back with us. He, ur, she? It can keep guard outside all day tomorrow. I’m sure a day of bird hunting around camp will be welcomed. I bet Lyna will leave her dog behind as well. This way nobody has to know anything about your condition.” 

He took pained, deep breaths and closed his eyes, considering the suggestion carefully. 

Natia continued, “It’s a better option than waiting till morning and asking Wynne for aide. You saw what happened when Mahariel got this fever from an untreated wound. You’ll be knocked out with magic and end up on a cot by the campfire with everybody watching. And with Wynne keeping you completely unconscious until you’re fully recovered. And yes, I know you like the prospect of having that beautiful bosom leaning over you, but you’ll be unconscious and unable to appreciate it.” 

Natia hated using so many words, but there simple was no other way to convey the message. As a carta thug, nasty glares and unsheathed daggers spoke better than any voice. And in bed, moans and actions did the speaking. Even flirting was enhanced with grins and dirty glances. Body language and movement could do so much more than words. 

“And believe me, I’d rather take advantage of you while you’re awake, so you don’t have to worry about that,” she commented. 

“I still do not like this idea.” He opened his eyes, a serious, distressed tone in his voice; a tone she rarely heard.

“I know,” she nodded slowly. She considered being in his place and couldn’t stomach the notion of being completely senseless. Even in sleep a rogue could awaken at the slightest drop of a feather.

He sighed, “Do you promise to take advantage of me when I am healed though?”

“I promise,” she smiled with added thought about presenting him with Antivan leather boots.

He nodded and unwillingly told her the correct dosage. She mixed the drug with rain water and honey and, despite the better judgment of rogues everywhere, he drank it. 

She sat with his head in her lap, rubbing his shoulders and neck and humming an Antivan tune he’d taught her until, at last, he succumbed to the effects. She kept watch all night, listening to the ‘pit-pat’ of rain on the tent and the steady rhythm of his deep, even breaths.


	4. Chapter 4

Natia woke up to the Antivan tune being hummed, but it wasn’t by Zevran. It was the dwarf ghoul who sung the tune to herself while gazing down at Natia. 

When the woman saw that the Warden had woken, she gave a small, sad little smile and spoke, “They killed Laryn, dream friend.” 

“Who are you and who is Laryn?” Natia asked thinking she had only thought the questions. She was pleased to find her body had reconnected to her mind. Although moving wasn’t as easy as pushing words past her lips, and when she attempted to sit up fully, she could on grimace and prop herself on her elbows. 

“Hespith,” the ghoul responded. “Do you need a potion? I am supposed to ask if you need a potion.”

Natia bent her arms straight again and laid back down. The world spun but never disappeared. However disorientated she was, her senses stayed attached to her. She rolled over onto her side, which caused rivets of pain to spread out in zigzagging patterns across her skin. She rolled back over and resorted to reaching out her arms blindingly to find if the elf was next to her. 

“He chased some darkspawn out,” Hespith informed, noting her search for another body. “He left some potions.”

Natia groaned and tried to roll over again. This time the rivets of pain were fainter and she managed to push herself up on her knees. 

“They are old potions, though,” Hespith chatted more to herself than Natia. “I’m surprised he found some. We brought them here. They probably have mold in them by now.”

Natia sighed and let the chatter of Hespith wash her thoughts clear. She felt half made of stone and half made of solidifying gelatin and when she attempted to take quick movements her body protested each stretch of the muscles. The ghoul began to hum the tune again.

Her thoughts jumbled in darkness until at last the truth caught up and once collapsed memories smashed into her like a body crashing against the rocks. Despite the stiffness in her body and the surreal reality around her, she smiled. “He’s alive.” The actuality of it numbed any physical pain and she found, at last, the strength to cry. 

“The male mage is a good healer,” Hespith said. “Was a good healer. He’s probably dead now.” 

“Where did he go?” Natia asked, forcing herself to shaky, unstable feet and heading to the entrance.

“The mage?”

“No, no, the elf.” _Who cares where the sod everybody else is._

“Left,” Hespith informed.

Natia limped forward, bracing herself on the wall and tugging at the grotesque growths for support. With each step her stamina returned and her pain faded to dull aches. Behind her, Hespith hummed the Antivan tune.

_He’s alive. He’s alive._

She walked over the bodies of recently slain darkspawn until she found him, knelt on the ground, hunched over with a hand gripping his side. His weapons had been forgotten and stuck out at odd angles in a still bleeding corpse. Alarm flooded her thoughts and she dropped down inches from him, reaching out her hands expecting to help keep pressure on a new cut. 

“Just muscles seizing up,” he told her between exhausted breaths. “No fresh wounds.”

“But you’re alive,” she said, feeling silly for speaking out loud even though she needed to confirm it. 

“And you’re awake,” he looked up and smiled. “How do you feel? Did darling Hespith offer you a potion?” 

She nodded. 

He pulled one hand away from his side and reached up to her cheek, smearing around the water of her tears to wash away some of the grime. “When we get back, I suggest a very long, very warm bath, yes?”

“When we get back?” She bowed her head and let the notion sink in. Orzammar seemed a million years away. 

“If you plan to keep going further into this charming place, I fear most of our brave team will not follow you. Perhaps it’s unwise to continue without the protection of a golem and –what does he say he call himself- a breaker?”

“Berserker.”

“Yes, that. That is a rather useful thing to have in a pinch.” 

She looked back up and met his weary stare. “I tried to kill you.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You’re not upset?”

He chuckled, “I was informed you wouldn’t remember doing those things. But no, I am not upset and you shouldn’t linger on what you almost did.”

She regarded him apprehensively. _If anybody shouldn’t remember such a happening it should have been you. You were gone. You-_

Natia’s muddled thoughts were interrupted by the sense of darkspawn and she pushed herself to her feet. Zevran began to move and then recoiled back into a crunched up position, swearing. 

“It’s just two. Maybe three. I got it,” Natia said. She removed his weapons from the corpse and looked back at him.

Zevran tried to move again but ended up in the same position. He nodded in defeat to her and didn’t attempt to move anymore. 

Two genlocks approached warily. When they saw Natia they lowered their weapons and began to back away. They wouldn’t meet her gaze and bowed their heads. She didn’t wait to see what they did next. She sprinted to them, muscle memory and years of training snapping back into place. The darkspawn did make a weak effort to turn and run, but both died without any fuss. 

There was still another one: a rogue. Her eyes searched back and forth. She moved back to Zevran with weapons poised for any action. 

“There’s another one somewhere,” she whispered. 

“Give me a dagger and walk away,” he whispered back, unfolding himself and holding out a shaky hand. “It won’t come out with you here.”

“What? Why not?”

“Go back to the chamber with Hespith,” he urged.

“No. I am not leaving you,” she barked and moved to stand behind his back. She pressed her legs up against his back protectively.

Zevran chuckled again, “Disobedient as always.”

A growl resounded into the air around the duo and Natia whirled around. She tossed the smaller of the daggers toward a wall and, instead of hitting the rock, it hit flesh and the genlock fell forward from the shadows, blade pushing all the way through its body from the force of it falling into the floor. 

Natia grinned, retrieved the blade and went back to the elf. Void of her own weapons, she sheathed one dagger on her back straps and returned the other to the assassin. She offered a hand to help him back but he brushed it away. 

“You might have to retrieve one of those potions from Hespith for me,” he grumbled. “And may I never complain of having to drink water again.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Natia said with gritted teeth and then yelled down the tunnel. “Hespith!”

Hespith poked her head out from the chamber.

“Potions!” Natia said. 

Zevran grinned, “Fearless and disobedient. Ah, I have missed you, my dear Warden.”

Hespith waddled to the duo with the vials and watched with a sour glower as Natia helped the elf with the potion. When dehydrated muscles responded to the drug, he was able to hobble back to Hespith’s chamber with help from the Warden. Natia kicked at the filthy slush piles until a relatively clear space had been made and he was able to sit down and relax against a wall. 

Hespith watched them silently, judgmental stares not lost on either of them. 

“How long was I out?” she asked sitting in front of him and checking for wounds. She was amazed that his ankle was no longer shattered, his legs appeared just fine and the terribly, festering wound from his wrist to his neck was nothing more than a healing scar. There were other, newer scars as well, but Natia discarded them as something provided by the darkspawn. She was thankful that Amell was such a powerful healer, despite seeming so frail. She wondered if the mage could perhaps even reattach a head to a torso. 

“A few days,” he responded. “Three? Four? Time is, shall we say, a very unfaithful wife in these tunnels.” 

“Where is the Amell?” Natia asked. 

“With Branka, trying to open the chambers to the Anvil of the Void,” Zevran said. 

“Branka found the Anvil?”

“Maybe.”

“So Branka was held prisoner too? The darkspawn were trying to turn all the females into,” she paused to search for what exactly to call the beast. 

“Broodmother,” Hespith answered. 

“Yes, that. Did Branka take the team further into the tunnels after Amell freed us? I didn’t think the mage had it in him, but did he somehow led them to destroy the broodmother and free us?”

Hespith cackled at the notion, a bit of bloody liquid squirted out between rotten teeth. 

Zevran frowned, shook his head and reached out a hand to press to her cheek, “I don’t know if we should be treading this territory so soon. Amell and the others are doing their best to occupy Branka so that you may rest. You might feel well enough now, but perhaps you should sleep for a bit, yes?”

“I’m fine,” she responded and moved to sit beside him. “Just a bit dizzy. Are you okay? Have you had anything besides potions?”

“Nobody has had anything besides potions,” he sighed. “Shale is the only healthy one amongst us. Although I don’t know if there is anything besides a crushed pile of pebbles and perfect health for it.” 

“Morrigan?”

“Volatile and weak, an interesting combination for our lovely temptress.”

“Oghren?”

“Sober.”

“Well that sounds terrifying.” 

“It is. Trust me.” 

They turned to each other and smiled. Hespith scowled. 

“So are you going to tell me what happened now?” Natia questioned. “Why is Amell stalling for me? Have I’ve been sick?” 

“Sadly, I’m all out of answers until you sleep for a bit more,” he replied. 

Natia couldn’t tell if she was tired or not, most feelings were still numb. All she could feel was relief to have Zevran alive. But if she was honest with herself, perhaps they would make it back to Orzammar and that thought sparked huge flicks of hope in her. If Zevran wanted her to rest a bit, she would try. 

“Are you going to tell me more stories?” she asked. 

“Naughty stories? Certainly.” He wrapped an arm around her neck and tugged her close so that she rested her head on his chest. 

Hespith clicked her tongue in discontent and rubbed yellow snot away from a dripping nose. She stared dejectedly at the two. Natia took the time to studied Hespith in the silence; how odd that, out of all the bodies found, Hespith did not wear armor but a comfortable dress. How odd that two years had passed since Branka left Orzammar and the ghoul’s hair still appeared as if she had recently braided a few strands and even kept it brushed. How odd that the taint should be so strong around her and yet she remain relatively untouched. 

Hespith glowered at Natia and the Warden narrowed her eyes. Time might have returned to a normal tempo, but something still seemed out of place. It didn’t matter though as her suspicions were cut off when Zevran leaned over to block her view of the ghoul and kissed her. Despite the blood and shit and Ancestors know what else smeared on their faces, he kissed her. Not wildly and heated like during their tumbles, but softly and slowly, tenderly and truthfully. 

“No!” Hespith snarled. “Stop it!”

Zevran pulled away and eyed the ghoul disapprovingly. He was about to speak up but the ghoul abruptly cut him off. 

“Look at your arms and hands, dream friend!” Hespith growled at Natia. “Pay close attention.”

Zevran made to catch Natia’s chin so she couldn’t look at her own body, but it wasn’t fast enough. She glanced at her arms and hands and realized how grey and pasty her skin was, along with several solid lumps protruding out. She shrieked and darted away from the elf. 

_How didn’t I see that before? Was it always like this?_

Hespith laughed and clapped her hands together.

Nata began to rub her hands together, trying to make the grey peel away like dried paint, but the more she rubbed her hands together, the darker the grey became. Her relief at knowing Zevran was alive was suddenly overwhelmed with fear. Panic erupted in her thoughts and she tumbled over the edge. _What’s happening? What’s happening? What’s happening?_

Zevran grabbed her wrists and pulled her hands apart. “Look up, look at me,” he insisted, but it was clear anxiety was already building in his voice. 

Hespith continued to laugh. 

Natia couldn’t look away though. The natural hue of her body was gone and desperate thoughts rushed to what seemed like the only logical conclusion. 

_I’m going to be a broodmother. I’m going to be that._

“Kill me,” she jerked her head up at Zevran, “please. Don’t let me be that. Please don’t let me be that.”

“You’re not going to be that, you-”

“Don’t lie to her,” Hespith clucked from behind them. “Tell her the truth. Tell her how she stripped away skin from your wounds. Tell her about the way she broke the bone in your arm. Tell her about the hours you spent bleeding before that mage came.”

“I did what?” Natia’s eyes flung from Hespith to Zevran. “Did I try to kill you?”

“I…I thought you confessed to this already,” Zevran looked at her with a mix of remorse and dread. 

“Not that!” she replied and yanked her wrists away. She shoved the elf hard, pushing him to the ground, before she twisted around and darted from the chamber. 

Hespith’s laugh followed her as she ran.


	5. Chapter 5

Against Cousland’s orders, Natia took Zevran and snuck into Genitivi’s house. 

She was technically supposed to be bidding her time at a local tavern and staying out of the way, especially after she sassed Genitivi’s assistant; an assistant who she knew was obviously not Geniviti’s real assistant. 

She had been sent away as if she were some naughty child who had broken a parent’s favorite vase. Cousland and the others would search the city for more information and, according to the noble human, go about being Grey Wardens like civil beings. 

When she was banished to the taverns, Zevran had been sent with her. It had barely been a week since the dwarf had fought for the Crow to be allowed to live and join their team. Since then Zevran had become, according to Cousland, her “problem”. 

“Do they often regard your opinions with such disdain?” the elf asked with a balanced throwing knife on his finger. He toyed with the pointed end and watched the way a few kitchen girls admired the way his nimble fingers moved. 

“Sometimes I think it’s because I’m a dwarf, and then I remember that Cousland is an ass,” Natia admired the girls admiring Zevran’s finger work. 

“I am surprised the chantry sister did not support your opinion of the matter,” Zevran spoke to the dwarf as he smiled at one of the girls. The maid giggled at her friends and they retreated back to the kitchens when an angry cook herded them inside. 

“Leliana?” Natia sighed. “She probably does, but she won’t say anything. She’s on this ridiculous do-good, religious quest of righteousness or some such nonsense.” 

Zevran slid the knife back into its place on his belt, turned his attention back to the dwarf and raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“She’s a rogue trying not to be a rogue. She knows how to wield daggers but hasn’t in many years. Haven’t you noticed how awkwardly she grips daggers?”

“I had. I thought perhaps she was just more inclined to archery than backstabbing.”

“She is, but only because she practiced archery at the chantry. Only as a sport and peaceful pastime though. There is no target practice for stabbing backs. She knows how to kill but she’s out of practice.” 

“She is a bard, is she not?”

Natia shook her head and pushed her empty mug aside. “Well, she tells everybody she was just a minstrel.”

Zevran scoffed. “I suppose they all believe her.”

Natia shrugged. “Who wouldn’t?”

“You,” he replied, paused and grinned. “Me.”

“If you hadn’t noticed, our judgment isn’t that important.”

Zevran smirked. “Important enough to let the assassin live though.”

Natia smirked back, “Nobody could argue against my need to have somebody else to watch our backs. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to protect a group of idiots? Like herding nugs, I swear,” she paused and sighed. “Morrigan tries though, at least she gets that Loghain’s men are only steps behind.” 

“It is a pity lovely Morrigan did not come along to question the assistant. Perhaps she would have supported you.”

“And that’s why Cousland didn’t have her come along,” Natia crossed her arms. “He knows Morrigan thinks I should be in charge. Actually, I’m surprised he brought me and you along. He’s probably worried I’m going to abandon the Wardens and is trying to babysit me when he can. If I misbehave enough he sends me away.” 

“I’m surprised they do not ask somebody to punish you,” Zevran leaned back in the tavern booth and eyed her slyly. “You seem to misbehave so often, my dear.” 

“Maybe that’s the real reason why they let you stay. I needed somebody to punish me,” she met his remark with an equally beguiling tone. 

Zevran was about to reply but snapped his mouth shut as his eyes looked towards the door with a disapproving frown. He glanced back at Natia and gave her an ever so slight nod. She lowered herself in the booth so that not even her unkempt tawny curls were visible. Zevarn swiped her empty mug and immediately began to pretend he was lost in thought, idly running a finger around the mug’s rim. 

Natia moved under the booth table and peeked through the sea of legs to spot the uniformed city guards. No doubt Cousland had made the Wardens’ presence noted and somebody had alerted the guards. Now the troops were out looking for signs of Grey Wardens mucking about Denerim. 

For tense minutes she curled near the elf’s legs and watched the guards. The minutes paced evenly by and the guards stopped at various tables to ask question. A few people looked at Zevran but then quickly back to the guards, shaking their heads. Perhaps they thought they had seen somebody with that elf, but, at second glance, it was obvious the elf was alone and drinking away his problems. 

Natia waited and waited. She snaked a hand up the elf’s leg just to see if she could make him uncomfortable. He certainly talked lewdly enough about such dirty notions, but Natia knew better. Words don’t necessarily relate to actions, especially when it came to promising somebody a good time. She would know too; it was so easy to lure victims into the darkness with a kiss, nimble fingers over skin and whispered promises. Much to her surprise, he moved his boot enough to slide it under her ass and bounce her ever so slightly up and down in very personal areas. 

She grinned widely and fought back a laugh. She moved her hand further up and he moved his foot more. It had been a long time since somebody dared to flirt so fiercely back. 

The guards moved to Zevran and the thought to stop did cross her mind. She didn’t. It had been months since she had played such games. A rush of joy leapt in her spirit when Zevran talked quite serenely to the guards but kept moving his foot.

When the guards left, Zevran peered down and she looked up. Wicked, wild grins passed between them. In fluid, swift movements, the two rogues fled unseen through the kitchen, past the confused, giggling maids, and out into the back alleys. They sprinted down cobblestone streets snickering about inept city guards and flirting shamelessly. 

They twisted through the crowds like water over rocks and Natia led him straight to the back of Genitivi’s house. With savage smiles, they snuck in the back window and crept through the dining area. First, the duo found the body of the real assistant and a stack of ripped apart research scrolls. Then they turned their skills to the fake assistant who didn’t notice the two shadows that lurked near. Ultimately, Natia slit the fake’s throat when he refused to tell them anything more and began to chant about Andraste’s rebirth. 

Moments later the rogues rushed back down alleyways and hid in plain sight, watching city guards bumble amongst market mobs. They slunk between shadows and shared rough, long kisses while hands learned the contours of the other’s body. Cousland and the others did eventually appear, and, despite the human noble’s dislike of her, it was Natia and Zevran who had to sneak the team out of the city and to the safety of their camp. 

Cousland said he would be more careful next time and wouldn’t need her help. Lyna apologized and thanked the dwarf for, once again, saving them from obvious dangers. Amell shrugged his shoulders. 

Natia didn’t tell them about the truth she found in Genitivi’s house until the following morning. She sat on a tree stump with arms crossed and watched as Cousland and the team discussed their options. At the base of the stomp sat Zevran, sharpening a dagger on bit of rock and humming an Antivan tune.


	6. Chapter 6

Natia initially fled out of pure distress, but kept going when she convinced herself that being near Zevran meant a chance of causing him more harm. Hespith’s laughter had long since faded and the only noise, save the tap of her boots, came from the occasional drip of some disgusting fluid oozing over caverns once infested by darkspawn.

_Let’s be honest, she told to herself, if you don’t fling yourself over a ledge, you’ll turn into…into that thing._

She used her Stone sense to navigate deep into half collapsed tunnels and used her Grey Warden talents to steer clear of any stray darkspawn. She was surprised that Amell and the team had done a fairly good job at eliminating all the darkspawn in the area. 

She stayed in tunnels either poorly lit or completely swallowed in darkness, knowing that if Zevran was trying to follow her the elf would have great difficult catching up. He didn’t sense the world beneath his feet the same way she could. She hoped he would give up and go back to the others. 

_He won’t. He’s following you. He always follows you. No questions asked._

The rich, boundless lyrium veins reappeared again and she found her way to a cramped grotto that dropped swiftly down into a crevice. The faint light of the ore provided enough light to show the drop down was not shallow. She peered over the ledge and backed into the tunnel where she’d come from, trying to find the courage to do what she had done to so many bodies before. 

Natia sat down, pulled her legs to her chest and rested her head on her knees. She wondered what would happen to Rica if the expedition party ever did make it back. Cousland had been so persistent on making Harrowmont king and Natia had fought with him for hours about the decision. She only backed down when Harrowmont promised her sister (and newborn nephew) wouldn’t have to return to Dust Town…but she never did fully accept the decision.

_Well, now you’ll have to accept it. When they all return without you Cousland will be as happy as a bronto in a mold bog._  
Except for Zevran. He won’t be returning with them either. He’ll die in the tunnels looking for you.  
Cousland will be ecstatic. What do the humans say? Two birds with one stone. Shale would like that expression. 

She rubbed mindlessly at her arms, pressing fingers over the squishy lumps and trying not dwell on the fact that Zevran had actually touched her. Kissed her. She must look like some malformed nugling just squeezed out of the birthing canal, covered in shit and more shit. Her rubbing turned to scratching and before long she was digging her nails in so hard that blood began to pool around the marks. 

_Not even Beraht would have the money to make you pretty enough to pass as the lowest ranking of whores. I bet you have four breasts by now._

She felt her chest and there remained two. She brushed trembling hands over her body and found no extra extremities. 

_Oh good, now when you throw yourself over at least your corpse will look dwarf enough. None of the spiders will mistake you for a new type of cave creature._

An exhaled breath caught her attention and she looked up. 

A pair of hazy, grey eyes blinked at her.

“Hespith!” she gasped and backed up, spooked by the woman’s sudden appearance. She had been so distracted she failed to notice the ghoul until she was right before her. 

“You actually looked much worse yesterday,” Hespith stated frankly. 

“What?”

“The bumps were bigger and your skin had boils. You’ve made a lot of improvement very quickly.” 

“So I’m not turning into a broodmother?”

Hespith shrugged and sat down, crossed legged before the Warden. “Why did those genlocks outside the chamber not fight you?”

“So I am turning into a broodmother?”

Hespith shrugged again. 

“How come you didn’t become one?” Natia questioned, knowing her first query wouldn’t be answered. 

“Lots of the females didn’t. They died. Laryn was the only one strong enough.”

“Then how come you haven’t died?”

Despite appearing ready to look away, the ghoul held Natia’s gaze. “I think I have. Are you going to jump? Or should I push you?”

_Be honest._ “You’re probably going to have to push me.” 

Hespith nodded but didn’t move. “He’s looking for you.”

“I know.” 

“The mage was too.”

“Amell or Morrigan? Why? Did they find the Anvil?”

“The male,” Hesith said. “He was pretty upset when he didn’t find either of you two in the chamber.”

“He gets upset if there’s a wrinkle in his robes.”

Hespith didn’t respond. Zevran would have joked back that, considering how ripped and rumpled Amell’s robes had become, his mental state must be precariously close to insanity. 

Natia searched Hespith’s hard-worn look for answers and found nothing by emptiness and abandonment. “Look, what do you want? Why did you follow me? I can’t do anything for you.”

Tense, stretched moments of silence filled in around the two dwarven woman, until eventually the ghoul broke the quiet with sour, resentful voice. 

“You want to know what happened?” Hespith asked, but didn’t wait for a reply. “When Branka found out we all wanted to turn back, when we all wanted to go home and give up, she disregarded every one of our requests, even mine, and kept going. She gave us to the darkspawn to make more darkspawn. She needed pawns to throw at Caridin’s traps. I was her captain, and I did not stop her. Her lover, and I could not turn her. She became obsessed, that is the word but it is not strong enough. Blessed Stone, there is nothing left in that woman but that soding Anvil.”

A thousand questions hurled into Natia’s thoughts, but only one came out: “You loved Branka?”

“Love,” Hespith corrected and continued. “She was pleased to know another living female was found, but when your friends found you and tried to save you, Branka interfered. Deals had to be made first. Branka only showed your friends back to the brood liars because the mages requested the help of the elf. They agreed to aide Branka through Caridin’s traps on the grounds that your elf be set free to help them. They said he was good at traps and such things. You see, they couldn’t bargain for your life…your life was already over. I am fairly certain they would have rather saved you though.”

“But, didn’t my team kill the brood-uh, Laryn?” Natia revised her words, knowing the beast was once a person. _A living person like me._

“They did. But first they dragged the elf out of that room. He didn’t want to let you go, no, not one bit. But they healed him and they killed Laryn with your elf leading the way.”

“Zevran led them?” Natia pictured that much more easily than she pictured Amell being a leader. 

“He fought with all your friends. He wouldn’t believe you were beyond help and healing, despite whatever the male mage tried to bring you back. Oh, your friends bickered and bickered, but they finally came up with an agreement. The elf said to tell Branka he was dead. The elf said to say that no amount of healing could have saved him. He told them to take their time opening the traps. He said that you would get better with enough time and that the two of you would regroup with them later. He said you would deal with Branka when you woke up. Or, if the two of you did die, the rest of them should get Branka her Anvil and return to Orzammar.” 

Natia remained quiet and pulled her knees as close as possible to her chest, feeling as if such a motion would block off the shivers down her spine. She closed her eyes and tried to remember the events that occurred while she lay motionless, staring up at the ceiling thinking time was looping itself into years. All she could remember was the ceiling. 

“You should know,” Hespith spoke with an unexpected compassion, “he talked to you. He told you memories so you’d have something to hold onto. He talked even when he was dying, before your friends came, and even when they came in to feed you. He held your hand and when he had the strength, he held you close and you’d sleep. When Branka found out they had killed Laryn and the remaining darkspawn she was furious. But by then you were already beginning to turn and she left the elf and you alone. If the others died attempting to get to the Anvil, so thought you’d be her next broodmother.”

The words felt like being crushed by mountains and Natia became aware of tears streaming down her face. She bit her lip and looked away, staring at the gleaming chunks of lyrium shimmering in the darkness. 

“The male mage came back several times and healed the elf on Branka’s orders. It was revenge for what they had done to Laryn. Branka wouldn’t just let you kill him; she let you hurt him and then heal him again. She dared the elf to hurt you. She dared him to draw his blade and end you each time. But he didn’t. He was sure you’d come back. And each time you lashed out he only guarded himself, and when he couldn’t do that without hurting you, he let you-“

“Please,” Natia begged, “Please just stop! That’s enough.” 

_It’s true. You can’t do anything but stab people in the back. Even without daggers you’re ripping flesh apart. Just like Leske._

“That’s what Laryn did. She ripped off her husband’s face and drank his blood.”

“Stop!” Natia yelped. 

Hespith grew quiet for a lingering moment and glared bitterly at the Warden before continuing. “I don’t know how you did it, dream friend. You never did mortally wound him. Even in such a state, you drew back and fought off the darkness. Maybe it’s because you were already tainted that you could resist it and find your way back. Maybe it’s because the elf wasn’t afraid of that darkness; he followed you into it. Even Laryn’s husband wouldn’t go near her after it started, but the elf didn’t back down; wasn’t scared and never gave up. ” 

_Of course he followed you._

Natia rubbed rampant tears away and thought for the first time in a long time her cheeks must be clean from all the water. Did she even cry water anymore? Maybe it was blood. She looked away from the lyrium, fatigue mixing with heavy dejection. She wondered if, as she fell over the edge, she would be falling asleep from exhaustion and not feel even the initial impact. 

“Natia!” Zevran’s voice echoed into the grotto. 

She looked back down the tunnel, alarm fluttering alive in her veins again. How could he have possibly scrambled his way after her? She didn’t hesitate. She scurried away from Hespith and crawled to the edge of the ravine with the resolution to fall over into the darkness. 

But where there had been no light before, the bottom of the fissure was illuminated by the faded glow of blue. It wasn’t as big of drop down as her Stone sense originally anticipated, but any jump down would cause injury. Zevran stood at the bottom, holding to a shard of lyrium with its base wrapped in several layers of dirty cloth to protect his hand against the ore’s ill effects. 

“Natia!” he called again. “I heard you. I know you’re here.” 

_Sneak away. You still can. He’s as blind as a nug in sunlight down here. Leave him here. He’s just a body, isn’t he? We’re all just bodies down here._

She glanced back to Hespith, but the ghoul had vanished back down the tunnel. 

_He’s not just a body. He’s my “problem” and you’re his, apparently._

“Zev!” she piped. 

He looked up and squinted, raising the makeshift lyrium lantern for a better look. A tiny spec of the ore crumbled off and landed on his cheek. He swiftly tossed the ore aside and swore, rubbing at his cheek. 

Natia giggled despite everything, “It’s a stupid idea to use lyrium for a torch, that stuff can kill you.” 

“Yes, well, the list of ways to die in the Deep Roads is considerably greater than I first anticipated, and I’m none too concerned with death by magical ore in a dark hole when there are so many more delightful dangers to be devoured by.” 

“I thought you liked dark holes?” 

“ **Tight** , dark holes that only fit bodily appendages and not entire bodies.” He licked a finger and rubbed it over the burned fleck of skin. 

_Be honest. Be honest._

“I almost killed you before we were dragged into Hespith’s chambers,” Natia blurted out. “Do you remember that?” 

“Hm, no, I can’t say I recall much of what happened between being separated from our team and waking up with darling Hespith poking me,” he took a deep breath and reached down for the lyrium, picking it carefully back up with the cloth and holding it well away from his face. He took cautious steps forward looking for way up to the top of the grotto. 

“I couldn’t do it.” Natia admitted. “At least I didn’t really try to until Hespith showed up chanting this creepy poem and the darkspawn were there.” Natia watched him struggle to find a route to her. 

“And you here you cringed at my naughty poetry.” 

“I didn’t know what else to do. I thought they were going to torture you,” she paused, took a deep breath (be honest) and went on, “But I was the one that ended up doing that." 

He halted his search. “What did Hespith tell you?” 

“Did I really crush the bone in your arm?” 

Expanding seconds of silence threatened to become his passive answer, but eventually a reply came. 

“Crush isn’t the word I would have used, but yes, you did damage. You dwarves are a very muscular people, which is often to my benefit, both on the battlefield and under your blankets. But before you make any more assumptions, let me say I would have you do it again if needed. None of us are making it back to Orzammar without you, and even if we did, I would not be very welcomed without your constant presence to ward off suspicions. Furthermore, my dear Grey Warden, none of them are going to be winning any fight against the Blight or getting our dear Alistair on the throne without a very unreasonable, very disobedient Carta thug’s help. No matter how much Cousland throws his noble tantrums and plays nice, we all know whose instructions to follow when it truly matters.” 

He waited for a reply and when none came, he added, “Not to mention, once I am back on the surface I would be without a bodyguard against the Crows.” 

Natia inched away from the ledge and kept quiet, still absently pushing down the disfiguring bumps on her skin. The idea that she may, in fact, love him crossed her mind for the first time. He kept talking even then. It was all he could do, and she knew it. He couldn’t touch her and the darkness hardly made body language viable. 

“It has been well over twenty four hours since you last lashed out. Most of the blemishing and discoloring is fading quickly and I daresay that in a few more hours all those lumps will be gone,” Zevran said. “Not that another pair of breasts wouldn’t be delightful, or no breasts at all for that matter. Either way, you still have that divine bottom, and I would so miss marveling such magnificent backside.” 

She snickered and imagined him smirking triumphantly up at her. 

Natia peeked back over the edge, “Just stay there and for Stone’s sake, put the lyrium down before you hurt yourself. I’ll find a tunnel to you.” 

_I love you_ , she thought sincerely but kept from speaking it. Maybe she’d never say it, at least not out loud. Zevran sighed in heavy relief and laid the lyrium aside. He nodded and waited obediently for his warden. 


	7. Chapter 7

Against Cousland’s orders, Natia led Zevran, Amell and herself into the back alleys of Denerim. 

She technically wasn’t supposed to follow Cousland’s team and had, once again, been banished to the taverns to pass time. Cousland had gone off trying to make a good impression on some of the city guards who supported the Wardens, especially Sergeant Kylon who was well aware of who really killed King Cailan. 

Although she had arrived in time to help and ensured Cousland got the glory of taking out the bandits, Cousland was mad, like always. She argued that Amell needed more battle experience and a scuffle with some clumsy thugs did him good. He was learning to shapeshift from Morrigan and needed practice. 

She was dismissed back to camp (alone) for having put their best healer in danger, which she promptly ignored and spent the rest of the day picking pockets, sulking in the shadows and keeping watch as Cousland continued to clean out the back alleys. Morrigan took note of her, but never reported Natia’s inability to march straight back to camp and think about what she had done. Zevran also took note of her, but between breaks in combat and the attentive gaze of Cousland, he crept into the shadows to join her. 

Fleeting kissing and dirty words were shared before Zevran returned the party and her to the shadows. He watched her. She watched him. 

She had done nothing but flirt openly with the assassin and even the newly acquired Wynne cautioned against such nonsense. But Natia never assumed that the teasing, the rough kisses, or even some of the obvious groping would lead to anything more physical. It was a game to her. It had always been a game. That’s what she assumed all assassins did: play with your prey a bit and then murder. Except, in this game, she didn’t intend to murder him. She had only wanted to see how far she could flirt before one of them eventually retreated from the encounter. 

Natia was an excellent tease after all, as often that’s how she lured victims into the darkness and proceeded to stuff daggers into them. It was so easy to whisper sweet words and move nimble fingers over a belt buckle in order to break down even the most prudent of marks. 

It was her sister, Rica, who knew what to do beyond the kisses and flirtatious smiles. A fact that wasn’t lost on Natia during the evenings she spent guarding her sister’s bedroom, listening to the moan and groan of Rica’s many satisfied clients. 

So that evening, after having spent a majority of the day hunched over in the shadows and becoming ever increasingly irritable, Zevran offered her Antivan massage. She accepted and simply presumed the game was being played. It certainly hadn’t been the first time they spoke about private time in her tent. Upper shirts came off and she happily continued to play along. It wasn’t a bad experience and she wasn’t ignorant to the effects on his body. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t let herself get felt up by a few of her more appealing targets before anyway. 

Zevran was so good with his hands; so exceptionally talented in the way he straddled her and rolled his hips just so. But when he began to unlace her lower body garments all the while kissing and caressing and nipping, she stopped him. In a lusty daze she laughed and admitted defeat; it was clear he obviously could take a ruse much further than she could and she owed him a drink. 

It was the first time the elf seemed genuinely taken aback, “You do not wish to continue?” 

“Well, yes, of course I do, but,” she stammered out, equally surprised and confused, “but, I mean, you won. You can stop now.”

“Why would I wish to stop?” he questioned, his disappointment equal to her confusion. 

It the first awkward moment between them, their breath hitched and needy with faces flushed. 

Natia was at a lost for proper words. “Well, I mean, why wouldn’t you stop?” was the only reply she could come up with. 

“I am on top of a beautiful, willing woman?” it was more a statement than question, but he put emphasis on the ‘willing’ part. 

Natia gave a nervous laugh, “Are serious about having sex? Real sex?”

Zevran gave her a baffled, almost dumbfounded look. One of his hands still clutched both hers above her head and the other hand had paused in its effort to remove her pants. Natia narrowed her eyes at him, trying to gauge when he would stop, pull away from her and demand two drinks for his amazing acting talents. She tested his intentions by bucking her hips, expecting him to laugh, admit his triumph and leave. She expected him to get up and excuse himself to take care of the bulge in his pants. She expected to see him in the morning and return to their normal flirting for another round of seeing who could play the best game. 

He didn’t. He moaned and pressed in the motion, bending down and kissing her again and again. 

Natia had almost had sex with Leske once. He was stumbling drunk and mistook her for her sister. She knew this, but still let him take off her armor and clothes. She let him run hands over her back and hold her breasts. He called her sweet things and moved so gently, and just for a few passing moments, Natia let herself believe he felt that way about her. When Leske went to tug off her underwear she stopped him and led him to a bed where he promptly passed out. If he remembered the experience at all, he didn’t let on and life returned to normal the following day. 

“You actually sleep with your victims, don’t you?” Natia asked in shock, pulling together rational thoughts even though the elf’s hands were working off her pants.

“You do not?” he responded, kissing along her neckline. 

“It just…it just seems like a waste. I mean, they’re going to die anyway. Why bother?” 

“And shouldn’t that be all the more reason to?” 

If she was honest with herself, the notion had crossed her mind on several occasions. It wasn’t that she didn’t want it; but she just never went through with it. She just killed. Her sister had sex. It was simple. Nobody had ever willingly wanted to bed somebody as dangerous as her. Things like that just weren’t done, at least not in Orzammar. A dangerous woman was only truly desirable if she was warrior caste or higher. 

“I just,” she muttered out words quickly, ashamed and terrified and excited, “I wasn’t trained to, you know, do this. My sister did this stuff. I’m just the…the-”

“The what, my dear Warden?” he purred into her ear and she struggled to maintain any control. Her pants were off and his hands were running along her sides and down her thighs. Pleasure spread up her spine and she jerked her hips again, this time out of necessity and not to gauge any sort of reaction. 

She hauled intelligible thought back and pushed him away from her. Again, he looked surprised, except this time more intrigued and determined. 

“You are-,” he began. 

“Nobody willingly sleeps with a killer,” she stated. 

“I will if you will,” he smirked and gave her a genuinely concerned look. “Have you truly never partaken of the finer pleasures of the body?”

She looked away, “A few times, but only with some of the whores in training. I mean, I was-...was just practice for them.” 

Zevran frowned, reached out a hand to hold her chin and turn her gaze back at him. He ‘tsked and leaned back down over her. “I can assure you, my Dear Warden, I am fully trained and need no practice. Now, do you wish continue or not?” 

She didn’t say anything. She just kissed him.


	8. Chapter 8

Amell and Shale waited outside the chamber where Natia and Zevran had been held. Amell was collapsed on the floor, back against a wall, legs sprawled out and sobbing. He looked like a child who had just been beaten up by a playground bully. Shale stood beside the mage looking utterly defeated as to what to do with the sniveling mess of a human. 

“Finally,” Shale greeted the elf and dwarf when they arrived, “It had me concerned. It is better? It looks much better.”

“Much better,” Natia confirmed. 

At the sound of Natia’s voice, Amell hurried over to her, flung his arms around the dwarf’s neck and held her like his life depended on it. In order to hug her so close, he had to stand on his knees and his head was too big to completely hide in her neck so he pressed it against her shoulder. It looked awkward, but Amell didn’t seem to mind. 

“You look so much better,” he said between sniffles. “Thank the Maker. Can we leave now? I’m so sick of this place. I’m sick of golems and crazy dwarves. I’m sick of this stupid quest. I’m sick of these traps. I’m sick of this slime stuff everywhere. I’m sick of rocks and stones and not seeing the sky. I’m sick of being sick.” 

Natia put a hand on his back and rubbed in circles. It dawned on her then that she and Zevran weren’t the only ones covered in blood and shit and Ancestors know what else. Amell might not have been faced with becoming a broodmother, but he had killed one and spent days killing darkspawn and being Branka’s pawn. Natia felt silly for having been so selfish and hopeless. She felt ashamed as having appeared like another Amell to the Antivan assassin. 

“Where are Morrigan and Oghren?” Natia asked as gently as she could, continuing to hold the human. How stupid she had been to leave the young mage to his fate. Amell had willingly followed her past the Legion and against Cousland’s orders.

“With that annoying, little hag,” Shale responded. 

“Branka?” 

“Yes, that’s its name,” Shale said tartly. “It has a control rod that functions on most of the golems present.”

“She’s going to turn Morrigan into a golem!” Amell sobbed. 

“What!” Natia’s calm demeanor vanished. 

“I took the twitchy mage and fled on the swamp witch’s orders. We have been looking for it,” Shale responded and turned to Zevran. “Does the painted elf still have health potions? I believe the mage’s frail skin has developed several more leaks and needs attention.”

Zevran moved into the chamber and riffled about the various, disgusting mounds until he removed the potion he had hid. Natia pulled away from the mage and rested him back against the wall, pressing a hand against his forehead in a vain effort to measure his temperature. She winced at the heat radiating from him. Her team was holding together on nothing more than health potions. None of them had water or food for days now. On top of that, she was the only one who had had any recent sleep. 

_Morrigan was small and slim enough, but now she must be a twig. And Oghren sober for more than a day? You need to get Branka and get out of here now. None of your team (well, maybe Shale) is going to hold together much longer._

“Did you see Hespith?” Zevran asked Amell. “She appears to have taken leave.”

“She wasn’t here when we arrived,” Amell replied. 

Zevran handed a red-liquid vial to the dwarf Warden. “Being that the potions belonged to the dwarves, none of them packed potions to aide in magical abilities. This is all there is.” 

“Drink.” Natia gave the mage the potion and checked him over for immediate wounds. If he had developed more ‘leaks’ it was hard to tell with already filthy robes covered in caked blood; any new wounds had already begun to scab over. She suspected she owed him new robes and several drinks. “Where’s your staff?”

“Branka confiscated our weapons. Your daggers are with her. The two daggers Zevran found with the dwarf bodies are the only weapons we have,” Daylen explained after chugging the fluid. “But don’t worry, I can still cast, I think.” He stood up and brushed at his robes, finding confidence that dwarf Warden had returned. “I’m okay. I’m okay.” He coughed with his words, his cough resounded deeply in his chest, breaking free built up mucus. 

“Shale,” Natia turned to the golem. “Can you please carry Daylen? Get us back to the Anvil. Now.”

Shale sighed but obeyed. Amell was hoisted off the ground and the golem’s pounding feet led the way. Between the blubbering of the mage and the frank, no-nonsense from the golem, Natia pieced together the situation; how golems were truly made, what had become of Caridin and the atrocities committed with the Anvil, who Shale really was, the rage that consumed Branka when Amell dared suggest the Anvil be destroyed. Morrigan and Oghren fought Branka when the paragon took control of the golems and threatened to turn the circle mage into her first golem. Morrigan used whatever strength she had left to help Shale flee with Daylen. 

_So Zevran and I aren’t the only ones doing stupid things for the people we love._

“I didn’t even say I would destroy it, I just mentioned it as an option,” Amell griped. “She’s insane, Nat. She wants nothing to do with Orzammar and politics and the king or anything. She won’t go back to dwarves. She won’t pick a king. She wouldn’t even have a conversation. I tried to be Cousland, I swear. I tried to do the right thing.”

“It’s fine, Day. You did fine. I’m proud of you,” Natia told him. If she ever had felt like a big sister, it was with Daylen. She felt pity for the barely adult youth who had survived his Harrowing only to be asked to betray a good friend and thrown into the ranks of the Grey Wardens. 

_He’s really grown up since the Joining. You should be proud. A few months ago he would have been just another dead body in the Deep Roads._

The longer the march to the Anvil lasted the more time Natia’s nerves had to stiffen with resentment and frustration. Branka had left her to become a broodmother. Branka had used her team as a type of lockpick and now objects to test the Anvil on. Branka had indirectly left Hespith to be tortured, and had directly seen to the torture of Natia’s lover. 

_That’s right. My lover. And if Branka makes him suffer again I will bring her head back to Orzammar on a pike._

Natia expected the Anvil room to be an elaborate arrangement like much of the surrounding thaigs, with smooth black metals and meticulously crafted pillars. It wasn’t. It was a vast cavern that dropped sharply into a lava river. 

Morrigan was knocked out at the pedestal near the Anvil. Oghren sat on his knees on the stairs that lead the Anvil, head bowed and face hidden behind his beard. Two rows of golems faced each other, making a protective path that directed towards the Anvil. Caridin stood off to the side, along with their weapons, surrounded by more controlled golems acting at his guards. Branka was busy running hands over the Anvil and studying its mechanics before attempting to make her first unwilling golem. 

Natia held up her hand and motioned for her team to stay back from the rows of golems and wait. Zevran gave her a protesting pout and she gave up, allowing him to follow her. Shale, with Amell still in tow, remained. 

“I see you’ve resisted and recovered from your ordeal,” Branka said, not bothering to look up from Anvil. “You’ll have to tell me about it later. I’ll add it to my notes. Laryn’s transformation was quite informative.” 

“You can’t turn anybody on my team into a golem,” Natia said, striding down the makeshift path the golem guards formed. She looked to Morrigan and was relieved when the witch cracked open her eyes at the sound of Natia’s voice. The mage didn’t move, but she stared at the dwarf Warden with both relief and acknowledgement. If Natia gave the command, the mage was ready to bolt to her feet and fight. 

Oghren’s head flopped up and he stared wide-eyed at the dwarf Warden. “I’ll be a bronto’s balls, you’re alive.”

“No thanks to your wife,” Natia snarled. 

“Had your meals continued, I’m certain you wouldn’t have been able to stop the process,” Branka sighed. “But your team did away with all my darkspawn and they owed me.”

“They owe you nothing,” Natia spoke with clenched teeth. 

As Natia and Zevran walked past Oghren, the berserker stood up and followed the duo up to Branka. 

“Orzammar is in turmoil, Branka,” Natia said. “You need to come back and play politics. You’re a paragon, act like one.” 

“Your mage was going to destroy my Anvil,” Branka’s head snapped up, finally looking up at Natia with eyes flooding over with madness. Steps away from the Anvil, the paragon snatched her axe and held it out defensively. “Don’t come any closer.”  
“You have your Anvil, woman,” Oghren spat. “The path is cleared and the Legion can keep it open until Orzammar has reinforced a trail here. Listen to the Warden.” 

“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?” Branka scolded.

Oghren took an angry step forward and Natia held him back. 

“Look,” Natia held out her hands in a sign of good faith. “I agree. The Anvil might be useful, but there is a Blight on the surface. The Wardens need troops from Orzammar and without a king we get no troops. You’re a paragon so the nobles will believe whatever shit you throw in their faces. Toss a coin to pick the next king, I don’t care. But you need to come back with us. Now.” 

Branka considered Natia’s words. The paragon’s feral eyes flashed from the Warden, to Oghren, to Caridin, to the nasty glares from the elf and all the way to the watchful gazes of Amell and Shale. 

“What of Caridin?” Branka asked. 

“What about him?” Natia looked at the golem.

“He is uncontrollable and refuses to explain the golem making process to me.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out without him. Now drop the weapon and call off your golems. This is your last warning. I didn’t survive this long just to babysit a paragon.” 

“I’m not leaving this chamber without a recently made golem,” Branka sneered. “Can you imagine the possibilities of a golem made with the soul of a mage?” 

Natia frowned. She knew the look of disobedience and defiance in Branka. It was like looking in a mirror. She bundled her hands into fists and moved her foot ever so slightly back so that it came into contact with Zevran’s foot. It the only warning she could give the elf before drawing her dagger, leaping forward and throwing the weapon to knock the axe from paragon’s hand.

Time unraveled into a mess of fast action. Oghren rolled forward, grabbed the axe and swung. Morrigan bolted up and sprang down the steps. In one swift movement, Zevran darted around the paragon and kicked Natia’s dagger back to her. Natia caught the dagger, swiveled around and headed back down the stairs, screaming orders to Shale and Amell. 

The controlled golem guards whisked into action; thick heavy arms lumbering at Natia and Morrigan as the two dodged towards the back of the room.

“You keep Amell alive,” Natia directed at Morrigan. “Take out the golems around Caridin and get our weapons back!” 

Morrigan gave a curt nod in return. The witch reached Shale and Amell; her hand snagged on the back of Amell’s robes, pulled him from the golem and led them towards a struggling Caridin. Shale trudged after Natia and the dwarf Warden used the golem as a barricade to fight from; she was small enough to whirl between the stone legs, climb up the stone sides, and launch herself from its shoulders. (A tactic she sometimes employed with Sten around as well. The qunari’s braced back made an excellent platform to bound off of)

Back at the Anvil, Branka had equipped her shield and fought to keep her husband and the assassin away. It was a fair fight. Branka lacked a suitable weapon and both Zevran and Oghren lacked their usual reserves of energy and standard weapons. 

Time ticked in jaggedly fast patterns. Natia kept close watch of her team as she chipped away at the golems with one weapon. She and the free-willed golem were capable enough to dispatch a few of their attackers before Morrigan entered the skirmish with Caridin. 

A wide flare of magical fire engulfed two of the golems and Caridin drew the attention of several of his creations. Amell scampered in and out of the fray, tossing weapons back to proper owners and casting ice on the golems to slow them down. 

“Take them out,” Natia ordered to the two mages and Shale, pointing at the remaining constructs. With her own daggers back in her hands, she ran up the stairs and entered combat with the paragon. 

Down the stairs. Back up the stairs. Around the Anvil. The two dwarves and elf tried to take down the mad woman. Branka had had sleep. She had had rations. Her muscles weren’t dehydrated and her mind wasn’t drowning in exhaustion. 

First it was Oghren she kicked in chest and sent tumbling back. He grunted and swore and got back up. When he lunged at her a second time she kicked him down the stairs where he landed with a sickening crack. Next Branka slammed her shield into Zevran’s shoulder. The elf hunched over in pain and she used the opportunity to smash the shield into his back. He went down with a crunch and she kicked his body down the stairs, where it landed next to Oghren. 

“Just you and me, Warden,” Branka readjusted the shield on her arm. 

Natia looked down the stairs, making sure Zevran was still moving. The elf glanced up at her and nodded in a sign that he was okay, just shaken. Oghren did the same thing. 

Natia tightened her fingers around her weapon hilts and swung out. The daggers hit the shield. Natia pulled back, flanked around and tried to get a hit on the paragon’s back. Branka was quicker. The paragon pivoted around and smacked the shield into Natia’s knees. The Warden dropped to the ground and barely had time to duck away from one attack. In the process, Branka swung the shield quickly back out and into Natia’s side. The air in the Warden’s lungs was forcibly exhaled and she dropped her daggers. 

Branka pushed the daggers down a few steps, away from Natia’s reach. 

At the bottom of the stairs, Zevran and Oghren tried to gather their senses and return to the fight. They tottered to their feet and stumbled up a few steps before dropping back to their knees, trying to catch their breath.  
“I think,” Branka mused outloud, “a Warden with the spirit strong enough to resist physical corruption would make an excellent first golem.”

“Just try. I’m not very good at following orders,” Natia spat, wiping away blood dripping from her nose. She caught movement from the corner of her and saw Zevran sneaking up the stairs. 

“And my first command to you,” Branka taunted, “would be to have you smash in the face of that wretched elf.” 

“You already tried that. It didn’t work.” 

Branka shrugged her shoulders, “Eh, if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.” 

When Natia would later try to remember the order of what happened next, time would congeal into a blur. Nothing in the Deep Roads seemed quite stable. Zevran reached the paragon and attempted to stick a dagger into her back. Branka was either too quick or knew what was happening; she turned around and slammed the shield into the elf’s chest, sending him to the ground with a defeated groan. Natia flew forward before she knew her feet were moving and tossed herself over Zevran protectively. She shut her eyes tight and wrapped her arms around him, preparing for the blow. 

She knew better than to do such a thing. She was still a Warden after all and Wynne had warned her about picking between a lover and the wellbeing of everybody else. She should have let the elf take another hit rather than thoughtlessly lunge forward to protect him. Him dying wouldn’t hinder the mission; her dying would ensure none of the others ever returned to Orzammar and a failed expedition. 

She didn’t care. _Let Cousland and Mahariel be the good, sensible Wardens._

She waited for strike. It never came. 

When she opened her eyes and looked up, an axe was sticking out of Branka’s chest, having completely ruptured through her layers of armor. Behind the paragon, with her blistered hand on the hilt of the weapon, stood Hespith. The ghoul yanked the blade back out of the chest, grabbed Branka’s shield and tossed it to the ground. Branka stumbled, coughed up blood and was about to fall over when Hespith caught her. 

Hespith turned to Natia. “Don’t go where he shouldn’t follow, because he will.” 

Then the ghoul dragged her lover past the Anvil and threw them both over the edge. This time, Natia knew what happened to the bodies when they plummeted down the ravine. 

_Maybe that’s what had happened to all the other bodies. Maybe those bodies didn’t flatten against rocks; maybe those bodies were swallowed by lava and melted away into liquid fire._

Natia slumped on the elf and pressed her ear against his chest. ‘Thrump-thrump’ went his heart and he rested a hand on the back of her head. No matter how much time twisted, the hammer of his heart always greeted her. It might not continuously hold the same rhythm, but for now it was always there and always pounding. 

She watched as the rest of her team finished off the golems. Amell threw himself at Morrigan and toppled her to the ground. It was one of the rare moments that Morrigan smiled and didn’t hold back an honest laugh of joy. 

Now that the fight was over, Oghren didn’t bother to attempt to get up anymore. He stared speechlessly at the edge, where his wife and her lover vanished, and eventually pulled a canteen from his belt and began to drink. 

“Where did you get that? I was told you were sober,” Natia spoke. “Sober for several days, in fact.” 

“Been saving it for Branka,” he said. “But she ain’t going to need it anymore.”

Natia rolled her eyes but didn’t move. She watched as Shale and Caridin greeted each other and then waited patiently for the fleshy beings in the room to catch their breath and regroup. 

“What will you tell the Assembly?” Zevran asked, not bothering to move either. His hand had meandered to her hair and he was absently pulling at flecks of dirt and running fingers through tangled mats. 

“Probably not the truth; at least not the whole truth. The Legion of the Dead should know to be careful with their female members. I don’t know. Maybe females shouldn’t even be allowed in the Deep Roads without a means to easily commit suicide.” 

“Would your Assembly even believe the truth?”

Natia considered the possibilities of what would happen when her expedition returned with news of Branka and the broodmother. She thought about how irate Cousland was going to be with her and how she would never hear the end of his reprimands. If she hadn’t gone past the Legion, then none of previous days' events would have happened to begin with. 

“Regardless of whatever happens when we leave this place, this Anvil is getting destroyed,” Natia remarked resolutely, thinking of all the disobedient, unreasonable dwarves that would do terrible things with it. ( _like me_ ) As well as what would happen if the darkspawn could learn to wield such a powerful device. “And if you make any stupid comments about wanting to be a golem just so you can be as hard as a rock all the time I will never touch your control rod again.” 

“Si, amor,” he responded with an endearing sigh. It was the first time she ever heard him call her that. She guessed what it meant but never did ask for a translation.


	9. Chapter 9

She woke up nestled in a mess of perfectly soft blankets and pillows. No longer covered in blood and shit and Ancestors know what else, but dressed in an amazingly comfortable nightdress. She was clean, with hair brushed and fresh bandages covering the worst of the still lasting trauma. 

Natia sat up, rubbed her eyes and found Zevran buried in the comfortable blankets beside her. He too was cleaned and bandaged, and she felt an immense relief to see him looking so healthy. She had gotten used to seeing him under a layer of muck. 

A flush of dizziness forced her to close her eyes for a moment and take deep breaths. The vertigo was a clear sign she shouldn’t be awake and that, like the elf besides her, should return to a heavily drugged slumber. She did her best to push aside the lightheadedness and enjoy the feeling of time being steady and reliable. She looked at her arms and hands and, despite various cuts and bruises, there were no longer bumps or any discoloration. 

They were in a grand, lavish room of the Royal Palace in a bed big enough for two humans. She didn’t quite remember getting there, but she figured the new King Bhelen had the best of the best medics tending to her and her team’s wounds. After all, she had made him king against Cousland’s orders. The least the new king could do was offer the expedition team extravagant accommodations while healing. 

Abruptly the bedroom door opened and Wynne, carrying a basket of vials, followed by Cousland with a stack of bandages, entered. 

“Oh, you’re awake,” Wynne greeted her with a startled smile. 

Cousland glared at her; glared hard and angry and almost violently. He dropped the stack of bandages on a near-by table, pulled a chair to the table and sat down, appearing much like an adult in a child’s seat. Unlike Zevran who looked out of place but still somewhat fit the furniture, Cousland and Wynne were completely ill suited for the surroundings. Even the basket in Wynne’s arms seemed inappropriately small for her. 

Natia glared back at Cousland and smiled smugly. 

“You went past the Legion against my direct orders!” he barked. “You put your team in extreme danger. You got Branka killed and you put Bhelen on the throne. I suppose you’re pleased with yourself.”

“I am, actually.” Natia returned his challenging tone. 

“This is hardly the time for this,” Wynne fumed as she set the basket down. “Please, Aedan, I appreciate the offer to help me but perhaps you should go send Leliana in.”

“No,” Cousland gritted his teeth. “I’ll help you. It’s not like we haven’t already wasted the past two days changing bandages and praying to the Maker our friends aren’t going to die.” 

“Well your first mistake was praying to some guy who isn’t around anymore,” Natia retorted.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t pray for you or the elf,” Cousland replied. 

“Oh, good, I wouldn’t want to trouble you for your concern or anything. It’s not like we just spent three sodding weeks in the Deep Roads.”

“You wouldn’t have been there that long had you just turned around when you were supposed to. You went gallivanting off into completely uncharted territories.”

“I’m sorry, maybe I misunderstood the original reason why we went to the Roads. Wasn’t it to find a paragon?”

“Who you got killed.”

“I found a paragon, just not the one I went to find in the first place.”

“Who, by the way, conveniently throw himself into the lava after he made a crown? A little far-fetched.”

“Well it’s a good thing you’re not part of the Assembly, because they believed it.”

“That is enough!” Wynne raised her voice. “You are both Wardens, why not try acting like it? Hm?”

Natia narrowed her eyes at Cousland, “I never told you anything about getting Branka killed. She disappeared into the Deep Roads.”

“It’s amazing the Assembly believed that too,” Cousland frowned and his harsh, grimace softened ever so slightly. “But it’s also amazing the truths people say when they’re sick and feverish.”

Natia’s eyes widened. _I didn’t say anything? Did I? It must be Amell._

“Amell told us,” Cousland said noticing the anxiety in her eyes. “You and Zevran have been profoundly drugged these past days. It’s incredible how fussy rogues are about being unconscious. You’d think after all that neither of you would have a problem with such things.”

Natia looked at Wynne for confirmation. 

The senior mage gave her a faint smile and nod. “You both had terrible panic attacks and even sent one of our dwarven helpers away with a broken wrist.” She paused, sat down on the bed beside Natia and gently pushed a bang from the Warden’s forehead. “We understand though, even Aedan.” She glanced behind her, casting a stern glare at the human noble before turning back to Natia. “After surviving through all that, it made sense he couldn’t stand to see anybody touch you, even if we meant you no harm. The same applied to you towards him. We had to put you two in the same bed before you finally gave in to the drugs, and even then he wouldn’t let go of your hand for a day. It was rather heartwarming to see such desperation from you two.” 

Natia blushed furiously but didn’t hold back a smile. Her memory went as far back as the rioting in the streets after she crowned Bhelen king and then everything skipped ahead to waking up safe and comfortable. 

“What all did Amell say?” Natia questioned. 

“Enough,” Wynne replied. 

“Too much,” Cousland jeered but the anger in his voice had faded. He stood up and headed to the door. “I’ll get Leliana.” 

When he shut the door quietly behind him, Natia could have sworn she heard a muttered ‘I’m sorry’ in his wake. 

“You should know,” Wynne began and Natia’s mind twitched in a memory of Hespith’s voice saying the same thing, “I would never have believed that out of all the people to survive such an ordeal, you and your assassin would be the ones. Leliana and Lyna, yes. Perhaps even innocent Daylen with Morrigan. But not you. Not him. And most certainly not you and him together.”

“I-” Natia began but Wynne held out her hand. 

“Let me finish, dear. I’m afraid Aedan is too proud to say such things, but such things should be said.”

Natia nodded and remained quiet. 

“You should know that when I truly consider what happened in the Deep Roads, then even I cannot deny how grateful I am that you are so defiant. Because of you, we now have a better understanding of just where and how darkspawn are created. Because of you, many female dwarven lives might be spared such a horrific fate. Because of you Shale knows her past, and even perhaps her future. Because of you, Caridin was allowed a peaceful end to countless years of torment and regret. Because of you, Bhelen will perhaps begin to lead the dwarves out of such an appalling caste system. Despite whatever Cousland says, we spent three weeks here in Orzammar and had plenty of time to reconsider who should be king. I think we are all glad you made the final decision.”

Natia smiled. “That’s an awful lot of compliments from somebody who scolded me last month for stealing chocolate pastries from those kids in Redcliffe.”

“You did steal them for Sten, so I suppose it’s the thought that counts,” she shook her head. “Needless to say though, I can understand why you were opposed to returning here and demanded Orzammar be the last contract the Wardens seek to fulfill. This hasn’t been easy for you, I know. And it might not mean much coming from me, but I am proud of you. All of us who waited in Orzammar, safe and unharmed, are proud of you.”

There were many witty replies in Natia’s mind but she bowed her head and thanked Wynne. It was the first time in her life somebody was ever proud of her for something other than jamming daggers into flesh. 

The door opened and Leliana strode in with a warm, full smile. Behind her came Rica holding a baby Endrin, Lyna carrying a few satchels, Lyna’s mabari with an extensively wagging stub of a tail, Alistair and Sten. 

“I asked for Leliana’s help, not a party,” Wynne chided kindly. 

“When we heard she was awake, I simply didn’t have the heart to tell them they couldn’t follow me,” Leliana chimed. 

“Maker’s breath, you are awake,” Alistair smiled with admiration. “You all looked so, so, well almost dead when you returned.” 

The mabari gave a happy bark. 

“It is good to see you healthy again,” Sten added. 

Lyna set the satchels down on the table and Natia recognized them as Zevran’s belongings (what little he had). Natia supposed whenever the drugs wore off he would be glad to find his things had been moved from the inn to the Royal Palace. She hoped in the three weeks that had passed nobody had swiped the gloves and boots he kept hidden away. In the days leading up to the expedition she was surprised to find him not fondling the leather garments though, but instead fiddling about in the bags with something small and sparkly. She intended to ask him whose earring he stole, but decided against asking another thief about his pickpocketing. It was none of her business who or what he stole.  


She also decided she wouldn’t tell him so many people had been present around him when he was knocked out. The thought of it made her skin crawl and she didn’t relish the fact that she would soon be joining him in that unconscious state. She could only hold out against the overdosing of sleep powder for so long.

“A letter arrived today from Eamon,” Lyna said. “Alistair and I sent him a letter the day after you left on the expedition, so of course his reply isn’t aware of the results. But he sent his well wishes to the expedition team and was quite pleased to know Natia was the leader.” 

Natia smiled. _I killed his son. He was probably hoping I’d die down there._

“Ready for the Landsmeet, Alistair?” Natia changed the subject.

Alistair gave her a nervous grin, “No, but I will be glad to get out of Orzammar.”

“Me too,” Natia responded. She missed the sky and the rain and the shadows cast by the sun. 

More pleasantries were exchanged. Natia held her baby nephew and listened to Rica complain of their mother attempting to steal silverware from the kitchens. She was updated on the rest of her team’s status and was pleased to hear Oghren had requested to join the team. She was thankful when everybody but Leliana finally shuffled out of the room. 

She fought off sleep long enough to watch them change Zevran’s bandages. Even with Wynne and Leliana present, she held his hand and affectionately stroked his forehead, humming his Antivan tune. She could scarcely believe two weeks ago she had thought about throwing them over a crevice in the Deep Roads. 

Whatever time had done to itself in the Deep Roads, twisting and fraying, it had finally uncoiled itself -and reality- back into place. All the borrowed time she felt she owed faded away and dropped like heavy boulders into nothingness, just like any lingering thoughts she had of Leske and the carta. 

She hoped the Crows never caught up with them, but if Zevran’s past and the deep dark of all his fears found him, she would be there as he had for her, unrelentingly loyal and insistently disobedient. 

_Let’s be honest_ , she told to herself, _you’re in love and it terrifies you. But you know what’s worse? Dragging dead bodies over crevices for a living. What’s even worse than that? Dragging the body of your dying lover over the edge. So for Stone’s sake Natia, don’t let go and don’t forget to follow him into that darkness when it comes._

End.


End file.
